Assassins in South Park
by moonyprof
Summary: When Kyle Broflovski directs a production of Stephen Sondheim's Assassins at South Park Elementary, he doesn't know how literally explosive the situtation is. Guns, electric chairs, and love triangles backstage make for a challenging show, not to mention
1. South Park Elementary Presents

Author's note and disclaimer: I don't, of course, have any rights whatsoever to the characters from _South Park_, or to Stephen Sondheim's musical _Assassins_. It was fun playing with them, though.

There's practically no sex in this story and it isn't a slash fic, but I've left in a little slashy Easter Egg for those who enjoy it. We aim to please.

South Park Elementary Presents

ASSASSINS

A Musical by Stephen Sondheim

Directed by Kyle Broflovski

Kyle proudly watched as his mother read the program. The whole family was on its way to the opening night of the show, Gerald driving, Sheila in the front seat, and Ike with Kyle in back.

"Assassins? What kind of a name for a show is that, Kyle?" his mother asked.

"It's a show about assassins," he explained. "It's a Broadway musical."

"I can tell that from the program, bubbe, I'm just asking you what kind of a show is that?"

"It's American history, Mom," Kyle said, a little annoyed. He'd had the feeling that his mother might raise an objection if she knew what the show was about, which is why he had not gotten around to telling her for the last couple of months. He told her he was directing the school musical and she simply assumed that it must be something like Oklahoma—probably it was too much to expect Fiddler On the Roof. The last thing he wanted was some kind of protest spearheaded by his mother, and she wasn't the only one who might have had some problems with the subject matter. He decided to explain.

"Assassins is a show about American presidents," he said. "From the assassin's point of view. It's got all the people who killed American presidents or who tried to in it . . .."

"I don't know," Sheila Broflovski said ominously. "It sounds too violent for schoolchildren to me."

"Oh, I don't know, Sheila," Gerald said in a conciliating tone. "It's an important part of American history."

"That's right, Mom," Kyle cut in. "That's what I explained to Principal Victoria. It's a good show to do when there's all this trouble in the world. Even Stan's Uncle Jimbo agreed when he saw the rehearsals that it wasn't unpatriotic or anything."

"Jimbo? What was Jimbo doing at rehearsals?" Gerald asked.

"Well," Kyle explained a little reluctantly, "we had to ask for Jimbo's help with the show. Because of all the guns."

"Guns! There's going to be guns? In an elementary school show?"

"Don't worry, Ma. They're not loaded, and that's why we got Jimbo—to make it look realistic but to make sure it would be safe. It's going to be fine."

Sheila looked about ready to say a lot more on the subject of schools, guns, and guns in schools, and Gerald decided it would be a good idea to change the subject.

"Sounds like a very complicated show, Kyle. Tell us who's going to be in it."

"Almost everybody," Kyle said. "Stan, Clyde, Craig, Wendy Testaburger, Bebe, Butters, and fatass—I mean Cartman."

"Does he have a very big role, Kyle?"

Without knowing it, Kyle's mother had hit a sore spot. "Yeah, kinda. I guess some people would say it's the biggest part in the show. He's playing John Wilkes Booth, the guy who shot Lincoln."

"Do you think he's good?"

"Brody," Ike said enigmatically.

"I can't tell," Kyle confessed. "I wasn't going to cast him as Booth. I was going to make him be Sam Byck." Seeing his parents' puzzled expression, he explained, "Byck was this dude who dressed up as Santa Claus and tried to fly an airplane into the White House when Nixon was president. He's got a couple of monologues where he's driving and eating hamburgers on his way down to the airport and cursing and I thought it was a pretty good role for Cartman."

"So what happened?"

"Geez. First, he auditioned with one of his old Faith +1 songs about getting down on his knees and pleasing Jesus. Then he followed up with the Cheesy Poofs song, even though we didn't ask him to. Then I said something about Sam Byck and we'd let him know, and he said I was a lameass fucking Jew and he was going to play John Wilkes Booth or else he was going home. I didn't want to, but he's been doing ok in rehearsals," Kyle admitted, "and you can't get away from it: Cartman's got a pretty good voice and a lot of stage presence. I mean, even if you hate him, it's ok, because this is John Wilkes Booth we're talking about here—that's the entire point."

In fact, Kyle thought, Cartman had been doing better than ok at rehearsals. He liked playing a famous actor who was also a Confederate assassin and put a lot of energy into the role. He'd radiated charisma and impressed people, with some unforeseen and unfortunate results.

"What role is Stan playing?" Sheila asked.

"He's playing John Hinckley," Kyle said. "He gets to sing and play the guitar." He didn't say any more. What had happened with Stan and Wendy was too bad and he felt vaguely guilty about it. He just hoped Stan wasn't too depressed to perform well. He changed the subject.

"The only outside talent is Big Gay Al. We needed someone who could sing the songs as the Balladeer. The character is supposed to be kind of a folksinger, but Cartman started his whole thing about hippies and we really didn't want a repeat of that music festival. Big Gay Al was happy to do it."

"I see that Tweek is the stage manager. Isn't that—"?

"A lot of pressure? Yeah, it is," Kyle said, "but he's too nervous to put on stage. I'm carrying a cell phone so he can call me if there's a problem backstage. I've got it set on vibrate so I can sit with you during the show."

Unless something goes wrong, he thought.

They were in front of the school now. "Look, why don't you drop me off here," Kyle said. "I have to go backstage and make sure everything is ok. I'll meet you in the auditorium."

"Ok, son," Gerald replied. "Good –"

"NO, DAD!" Kyle shouted.

"Luck!" Gerald ended cheerfully. Kyle watched the car driving away, suddenly filled with a sense of foreboding . . ..

It's bad luck to say "good luck" upon the stage.


	2. It's Bad Luck to Say Good Luck

Chapter Two

"It's Bad Luck To Say Good Luck"

Kyle walked into the cafeteria, which was doubling as a dressing room and green room tonight. The cast was collecting their costumes from a rack, going and changing in the bathrooms, and coming back to put on makeup. It looked as though almost everybody was here, but he checked the sign-in sheet to make sure, and ran into Tweek, who was doing the same thing. Tweek was carrying a clipboard and wearing a stopwatch and looking even more wound up than usual, and that was saying something.

"Hey, Tweek," Kyle said in an exaggeratedly laid-back manner. "How's it going?"

"AAAAAK!" squealed Tweek. "Too much pressure! Too many things to go wrong! Oh, my God!"

"Look, Tweek," Kyle said calmly. "We went over this before. Being a stage manager is all about lists and timing. You've got all your lists, right?"

Tweek nervously waved his clipboard.

"That's right. You've got the cast list, the prop list, the costume list, the list of set changes and light cues. And it's 7:30—half an hour till show time. Now, have you got everything done that's supposed to be done by 7:30? Let's go over it one by one."

Tweek took a deep, shaky breath.

"All the props on the prop table—check. All the costumes placed on the rack—check." In fact, most of them were already on the actors. "Everybody in the cast checked in—check."

Tweek looked nervous again. "Except for Butters! Butters isn't here! Oh, my God!"

"Relax, Tweek," Kyle said soothingly. "You know Butters has a late call. He doesn't even go on until really late in the show."

As if summoned by magic, Butters ran in through the cafeteria doors.

"Huh-hi, Kyle. Hi, Tweek. I-I'm not late, a-am I?" Butters stammered, knocking his fists together.

Kyle sighed. Butters was going to be a loose cannon. Based on past history, anything and everything could happen to Butters and that went double onstage. He might be brilliant. He might freeze up and wet his pants. His shoe might fly off and kill several people, although Kyle had tried to prevent this by giving him a non-dancing role. You simply couldn't tell with Butters, and Kyle was just hoping for the best.

"Boy howdy, fellas, my parents are all excited about the show," Butters said happily. "I told them I had an important part---guess that was kind of braggy, I oughta be a-ashamed a myself—but they're comin' all right, and they said if I do good they'll take me to dinner at Bennigan's tomorra. Course," he said in a more worried tone, "I didn't tell 'em anything about what the show was about or the guns or the electric chair or nothin'."

Kyle turned to Tweek abruptly. "Safety check, Tweek! The most important list! You did the safety check, right?"

"SAFETY CHECK! Oh, JESUS! AKKK! TOO MUCH PRESSURE! Too many things that can—" Tweek didn't even finish before speeding down the hall.

Butters looked a bit wistful. "Did I say somethin' wrong, Kyle? I hope I didn't say nothin' wrong."

Kyle patted him on the shoulder. "No, Butters," he said. "In fact, you might have been a real help. It doesn't hurt to do an extra safety check, and it sounds like you reminded Tweek just in time."

Butters looked happier again. "Oh. Well, OK. A-all right, Kyle, guess I better go get ready." He moved off towards the costume rack.

Kyle walked down the line of makeup tables. There wasn't too much in the way of makeup. They had two ancient kits of stage makeup, one for girls, and one for boys, and the Star Trek geeks who had once made balls for Butters' chin had generously donated some spirit gum and some crepe hair for the few actors who needed it, one of whom was sitting directly in front of Kyle.

Eric Cartman was sitting in front of a mirror and carefully applying a black mustache that curled up at the ends. He had dyed his hair black for the role of Booth. With the mustache and the flashy nineteenth century actor's costume, he looked a bit like Snidely Whiplash, if Snidely Whiplash had found a giant cache of Cheesy Poofs and Snacky Smores and really let himself go. It was clear, however, that Cartman liked what he saw. He smirked at himself in the mirror, and then saw Kyle behind him.

"Hey, Kyle," he said smoothly. "You'll be happy to know that your show is going to be a success. Or," he added, after a pause, "if it isn't, it won't be my fault." He reached into a bag of Double-Stuffed Oreos and made himself a Quadruple Stuff. Kyle smacked his hand.

"Hey, no eating in costume, ass-master!" Kyle snapped. "That thing is rented."

Cartman shrugged. "Kyle, you have to lighten up. I know your cheap little Jewish soul is counting the nickels on the production—"

"CARTMAN! It's a fucking huge FINE!"

"—But you have to remember that artists have needs. I'm going to save your show, and in order to do that, my soul needs to be fed."

"It's not your soul, it's your face, fat-ass," Kyle retorted, "and it doesn't need feeding. You quit it, or I'll break your fingers." He leaned forward menacingly, but was brushed aside by a girl with long black hair.

"OOooo, Cartman!" Wendy squealed. "You look wonderful." Cartman smirked again and handed her a Quadruple-Stuffed Oreo—exactly one.

"Cartman," Kyle said warningly, but Wendy ignored him. She didn't even seem especially interested in food. Her arms were wrapped around Cartman's enormous shoulders.

"You're going to be terrific," she whispered in Cartman's ear. "Break a leg."

"Whoa!" said Cartman, "hope not—serioushlay." Wendy leaned forward and gave Cartman a big wet kiss. Kyle hoped there weren't tongues involved, but he was afraid there probably were. In any case, there was certainly a rude squelchy kind of sound.

"Gross, dude!" Kyle protested, when he heard a swallowing noise right behind him. He wheeled around to see his best friend Stan looking as though his gay dog Sparky had just died. He was already in his costume as John Hinckley but his face said Hamlet, Act I. The suicidal despair, the disgust with women; all he needed was a black costume and a baby spot and he would be good to go.

"Uh, hi Stan," Kyle said casually, stepping in front of Wendy and Cartman and trying to block them from Stan's view. As though that would help.

"Hi, Stan," Stan echoed blankly. Blank face, blank voice, just nothing. Wendy and Cartman hadn't even heard him. At least Wendy hadn't. Kyle darkly suspected Cartman of rubbing it in.

"You're going to be great, Stan," Kyle continued, trying to pull him away. Wendy surfaced with a final SMEEEEERP and a POP!

"Oh, hi Stan," she said brightly. "Break a leg." Kyle shook his head. She was so darned _perky_ about it. He was almost ten years old, and he did not get women, and he wondered if he ever would.

"Hi, Stan," Stan said dully.

"EY!" Cartman cut in. "You're wearing half my mustache, you hippy ho!" And indeed half of Cartman's mustache was now glued to Wendy's upper lip. Kyle took advantage of the distraction to pull Stan away, thinking as he did so that Cartman's description of "hippy" fitted Wendy better than usual tonight. She was going to perform the role of Squeaky Fromme, and she was dressed as one of Charlie Manson's former girlfriends, back before he'd watched a lot of Christmas specials and become a much nicer person. She was wearing hippy clothes because that's what she was supposed to be.

He got Stan away, next to the boy's bathroom. "Jesus, dude, I'm sorry," he said, genuinely worried for his friend. "Are you going to be ok?"

"Yeah," Stan said. At least he was making sense now, but he still sounded really depressed. "I just wish . . . "

"That Wendy hadn't gotten together with Cartman?" Kyle finished his sentence, but Stan shook his head.

"No, dude, I can't help what she does or who she likes. I just wish I didn't have to sing a love duet with her in front of the whole town."

Kyle thought about a lot of things at once. He wished that he hadn't cast Wendy and Stan to sing that duet together, which was kind of a love duet, and yet kind of wasn't. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time—their voices blended well and they looked so darned cute together and they were perfect for the roles. He wished that he'd known how weird people got during rehearsals of a show. How could he know that Wendy would quarrel with Stan during their rehearsals together, or that she would watch Cartman turn on the charisma and fall for him like a ton of bricks? There had been a lot of short-lived relationships during the rehearsal period. He'd been too busy as the director, of course, but he could have sworn, looking back, that some of the girls had made passes at him. Only Butters seemed to have missed out on all the social opportunities the show provided, and on a few occasions, his Mom had even forgotten to pick him up and he had had to walk home alone and very late. Kyle had had to beg Mr. and Mrs. Stotch not to ground Butters during rehearsal time, explaining that it was really schoolwork.

But mostly he thought about his show—HIS show—and the fact that he did not want it to be ruined.

"Stan," he said, "I know this sucks, but you know what they say."

"Life's a bitch and then you die?" offered Stan.

"No. The show must go on. C'mon, please, I'm begging you: ignore Wendy and Cartman. Fuck 'em. You've got a show to do. You get out there and sing that song, there will be tons of girls all over you."

"I don't want tons of girls," Stan said bleakly, "I just—" but Kyle cut him off.

"Save it, dude. I know. It's three minutes till curtain. Just promise me you'll do your best and I'll—I don't know—I'll have Cartman killed for you. After the show. "

"OK," Stan said, and tried to smile. "OK."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I'll be OK."

"Good. Break a leg, man. I've got to go out front with my parents."

Kyle ran around to the auditorium entrance. They said that once a show opened, it belonged to the cast and the director just had to let it go. It wasn't though he had much of a choice. But Tweek was right.

There were an awful lot of things that could go wrong.


	3. Everybody's Got the Right To Be Happy

Chapter Three: "Everybody's Got the Right to Be Happy"

Kyle slipped into the seat his parents had been saving for him. From his seat between them, he glanced around at the audience. Everyone in town seemed to be there—Mrs. Garrison, Principal Victoria, the mayor, Mr. Slave, Jimbo Kern—seated next to Ned and telling him something, probably about the guns in the show--the Stotches, the Marshes, and Mrs. Cartman. Some of them were glancing down at the program with a dubious look on their faces, but most just seemed anxious for the show to start.

The lights dimmed. Tweek had just crossed the first item off his list, and Kyle hoped that it gave him confidence.

Two—lights came up on the curtain. Three—a drum roll, and the music for the show began. Kyle wasn't worried about that part. Token was backstage running the electronic track for the show. There was no way they could afford all those musicians, and Token was good with sound equipment.

Then the curtains parted to reveal a carnival barker's booth. Guns hung from the rafters, and targets moved across the back of the stage, looking like ducks in a shooting gallery, only these looked like—

Presidents.

Kyle could hear the audience gasp. If there were going to be a protest, it would happen now. But everyone seemed ready to wait and see what happened.

Jimmy Vollmer stood in the booth, dressed like a carnival barker, as a sullen-looking kid slouched onstage. Luckily Jimmy—like most stutterers—hardly stuttered at all when he sang, and Kyle knew he was very excited to be in the show—opening it, in fact. He pointed his crutch at the new arrival and began to sing:

_Hey, pal, feelin' blue?_

_Don't know what to do?_

_Hey pal, I mean you . . . _

_Yeah, you!_

_C'mere and kill a president!_

The audience gasped again, but Jimmy sailed on. His sunny presentation was perfect for this.

_Some guys think they can't be winners_

_First prize often goes to rank beginners!_

Christophe, aka "The Mole," who was playing Leon Czolgosz, an angry revolutionary, glared as Jimmy sang about the good points of the gun he was trying to sell him. "All right," he grated. "Give me."

Kyle wished he hadn't insisted on smoking onstage.

As Jimmy showed The Mole the gun, Stan wandered—apparently aimlessly—on stage. He still looked depressed, but luckily that was in character for the lovesick and unhappy John Hinckley.

Jimmy sang on:

_Hey, pal, fail your test?_

_Dream girl unimpressed?_

_Show her you're the best, _

_If you can shoot a president!_

_You can win the prize with the big blue eyes . . . _

Kyle winced. He hadn't _meant _to cast his friend as a luckless loser who couldn't get the woman he loved to give him the time of day. At least, he had, but he hadn't meant for life to imitate art like this. No doubt about it, this seriously blew chunks for Stan.

_Everybody's got the right to be happy_

_Don't stay mad, life's not as bad as it seems,_

_If you keep your goals in sight,_

_You can climb to any height,_

_Everybody's got the right to their dreams . . ._

Stan and the Mole fought over whose turn it was while Jimmy warned them "no violence," and turned to Kenny, who had just come onstage in the role of Charles Guiteau. His outfit was nearly as fancy as Cartman's, but shabby, because Guiteau was supposed to be broke.

_Hey, fella, feel like you're a failure? . . . _

_C'mere and shoot a president!_

"Mmmm-HMMM!" agreed Kenny. Goddamn it, Kyle thought, Kenny had applied his beard so tight that you couldn't understand a word he was saying. He might as well be talking through his parka!

Craig came onstage as Giuseppe Zangara, then Wendy and Bebe as Squeaky Fromme and Sarah Jane Moore, each of whom had tried to shoot Gerald Ford. All of them were clamoring for guns.

Jimmy paused dramatically, and went on:

_Hey gang, look who's here, _

_There's our pioneer, _

_Hey, Chief, loud and clear. . . _

And Cartman simply swanked onto the stage, silver-headed cane in hand. And took over. Completely.

He hadn't been miscast; Kyle could see that now. He was egotistical, oily, charming, a megalomaniac—in short, he was perfect for Booth.

Well, maybe a little bit fat and short for Booth, but still. The important thing was that the audience was eating him up. The good part—the scary part—was that Cartman had this effect on his fellow cast members, too. They got carried away and into the world of _Assassins_. It was like watching him imitate Hitler or General Lee all over again. Kyle cast a nervous glance over at his mother, but she appeared to be completely swept up by the play. Kyle figured that this must mean things were going well. Right?

The opening number ended, and a projection of Abraham Lincoln appeared on the backdrop. The strains of _Hail to the Chief _could be heard.

"Ladies and gentlemen . . . the President of the United States . . .. Abraham Lincoln!"

"Excuse meh, pardon meh, " Kyle could hear Cartman saying. He pulled out his gun, and with a completely unscripted "RESPECT MAH AUTHORITAH!", he fired. The shooting gallery lit up and dinged wildly.

"You dumbass," Kyle muttered. "It was supposed to be _Sic Semper Tyrannis._" Weirdly, though, "respect mah authoritah" seemed like a perfectly logical thing for Booth to say.

"Johnny Booth was a handsome devil," sang Big Gay Al as the Balladeer. Somebody snickered.

"EY!" Cartman snapped, and glared at the audience. Whoever it had been cut it out. Cartman then proceeded to lay out Lincoln's supposed crimes, and once again, Kyle could feel the audience getting carried right along with him.

_Hunt me down, smear my name, _

_Say I did it for the fame,_

_What I did was kill the man who killed my country . . ._

_What I did, I did well, _

_And I did it for my country . . ._

Cartman's strange accent—and Kyle had never been able to figure out what it was—somehow made Booth's song more convincing. He knew that Cartman wasn't _trying_ to say "countreh," that that was the way he _always _mispronounced it, but it didn't seem to matter.

_Let them cry dirty traitor,_

_They will understand it later, _

_No, the country is not what it was. . ._

There was a dramatic BANG! and the stage went black. All around him, Kyle could hear sniffing. "Goddamn it," he thought irritably, "it wasn't _that _touching." He knew without even seeing it that somewhere backstage Wendy was also sniffing, and that while Cartman was lying on stage pretending to be dead, he was smugly muttering "Sweeet." He was relieved to hear a deep musical voice behind him saying softly but clearly, "That little fatass cracker is just too goddamned convincing."

Big Gay Al finished up the song, pointing out that Booth was, in fact, an angry madman: _Angry men don't write the rules/and guns don't right the wrongs . . . Damn you, Booth._ He added, "and how is everyone tonight? _Super!_" Big Gay Al had broken Booth/Cartman's spell. Kyle could feel the audience coming to its senses. He even heard his mother saying "Whatwhatwhat?" And backstage, in the dark, Eric Cartman muttered, "screw you guys."


	4. Three Angry Men

Chapter Four: Three Angry Men

Kyle's cell phone vibrated, and he slipped out of the row and into the auditorium.

"Yeah, what is it, Tweek?"

"I've got to electrocute Craig in FIVE MINUTES. OH, MY GOD!"

Clearly, Tweek did not wish to electrocute Craig.

Kyle tried to reason with him.

"Tweek, it's a SPECIAL EFFECT. Craig's playing an assassin. He'll scream at everybody, flip 'em off, sit down in the chair, there will be a lot of scary light and sound effects and then he'll stand up and walk offstage. Everything is going to be fine."

"I DON'T WANT TO ELECTROCUTE CRAIG! GAH!"

"You're not _going_ to be electrocuting Craig, Tweek. I told you. He's just going to sit in a chair. Hey, have you stopped the show? I can't hear any music. Tell Token to cue up the Sousa."

"Too much pressure! Too many things that can go wrong!"

"TWEEK, GODDAMN IT, PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER OR I'LL COME BACK THERE AND FRY CRAIG MYSELF."

CLICK.

Surprisingly, or maybe not, everything went exactly the way Kyle had said it would. A voice announced President Franklin D. Roosevelt. Peering into to the auditorium from the hallway, Kyle saw Craig come onstage as Giuseppe Zangara, yell, "You think I care who I kill? Pull switch!" and flip everyone off. The lights flickered, there was a loud buzzing noise and the audience gasped. Kyle quickly dialed Tweek.

"Everything ok back there, Tweek?"

"Yeah," Tweek sounded a bit muffled—subdued, maybe. "It's ok. That was pretty scary, man."

"I told you it was just a special eff-" Kyle felt a hand on his shoulder and a soft menacing voice said, "That was some Italian stereotype you had up there, wise guy."

Kyle spun around to find himself face to face with Luigi, the nine-year-old former tooth fairy crime boss. "Oh, crap."

Luigi sounded gentle, even thoughtful. Kyle wasn't fooled. Luigi could have his balls cut off. "Some people might even say—_offensive_."

Kyle forgot to be scared and got annoyed. "Oh, for Christ's sake, Luigi," he heard himself saying, "this is an _offensive show_. Presidents get killed in it. People say fuck and shit. Hell, Cartman just said the N word in there about ten minutes ago and nobody threatened to kill _him._"

"Are you disrespecting me?"

"I don't know. Maybe yes. Nobody gets any respect in this show, Luigi, that's just the way it is. It's not personal."

Luigi frowned. "You mean, it's just business."

"Yeah. It's show business. Honest to God, Luigi, if you get back in there you'll see about twenty more things that will seriously piss some people off. I promise you, you're not alone."

Luigi appeared to be thinking about this. "Well . . . ok." He slipped quietly back into the auditorium. Kyle followed him and slid in next to his mother and father again.

"Everything all right, Kyle?" his father whispered.

"Uh-huh," he said.

"This is so good, bubbe, your mother is so proud of you," Sheila said, slipping an arm around Kyle, and Kyle could see Ike bouncing happily on the seat. Craig's electrocution didn't seem to have disturbed him any.

They were now well into the Mole's big scene as Leon Czolgosz, an unhappy frustrated anarchist. Discontented, disillusioned with the state of the world, convinced that God hated him, Christophe didn't even have to act to play the role. Bebe, Kenny, and Cartman joined him in a barbershop quartet about the wonders of guns. They were all armed and pointing their weapons at the audience.

_And all you have to do _

_Is_

_Squeeze your little finger back--_

They squeezed the triggers. There was a "click." Kyle relaxed slightly. Jimbo seemed to have set the guns up safely.

_You can change the world._

_Whatever else is true, _

_You_

_Trust your little finger, _

_Just a single little finger_

_Can _ (CLICK)

_Change the world._

All of them, except for the Mole, seemed to be enjoying themselves. It was more than a little spooky, especially Cartman's evil grin as he took aim, but Kyle reminded himself that it was supposed to be spooky and dark. They all exited, and the Mole continued his anarchist song:

_A gun kills many men before it's done,_

_Hundreds,_

_Long before you shoot the gun . . . _

_Men in the mines and in the steel mills,_

_Men at machines who died—for what?_

_Something to buy—_

_A watch, a shoe, a gun, _

_A "thing" to make the bosses richer,_

_A gun kills many men before it's done . . ._

_Just one more . . ._

And off he went to shoot William McKinley in the stomach. The applause that followed his exit was cut short by Christophe's swift return and glare.

"You think I am joking? You think, this little boy is _fort amusant, non_? Let us see if you laugh when the revolution comes, when the streets of South Park run red with the blood of the _bourgeoisie_, let us see if you will laugh then. _Vive La Resistance_!"

There was a pause, and then the audience laughed heartily and burst into applause. Gerald turned to his son.

"Kyle, that was really clever! That almost had me going there! Was that your idea?"

Kyle decided not to tell his father that the Mole never joked.


	5. Unworthy of Your Love

Chapter Five: "Unworthy of Your Love"

Clyde had come and gone as Sam Byck. Kyle had had some trouble persuading him to take the part, as Clyde suspected that he was being chosen merely because everyone thought of him as the second-fattest kid in South Park, and that was partly the case. But Clyde was doing well. For one thing, it was fun to wear a Santa suit and to say stuff like "Bullshit makes the world go around," and "Fuck you" without getting bleeped, and for another, Clyde was actually happy to get picked for something. It made up for his not having made the cut a while ago when they were auditioning friends.

Now they were up to Stan and Wendy's big scene. Stan was already onstage as John Hinckley, playing the guitar, and Wendy entered, dressed as Squeaky Fromme.

It wasn't a love scene, that was for sure, and Kyle began to see where some of the problems had crept in between Stan and Wendy. Squeaky was pointing out to Hinckley that contrary to his fantasy, Jodie Foster was not his girlfriend, and that he was a loser. Wendy took out a picture of Charlie Manson and showed it to Stan, as per the script:

"See this guy? I'm his girlfriend. I kiss him. I fuck him, I do stuff for him you wouldn't even understand. Does she do that for you? Does she kiss you? And fuck you? And—"

"GET OUT OF HERE!" Stan exploded, as Hinckley or as himself, Kyle couldn't tell. The audience was shifting around in their seats, clearly uncomfortable with watching a little girl playing a role where she claimed to be fucking Charlie Manson. Or fucking anybody, for that matter. Kyle knew that that part of it was just the script, but the whole scene was rubbing it in that Wendy was kissing someone else and that Stan wasn't kissing anybody.

Then Stan picked up his guitar again:

_I am nothing_

_You are_

_Wind and water and sky,_

_Jodie, _

_Tell me, Jodie, _

_How I can earn your love?_

_I would swim oceans_

_I would climb mountains._

_I would do anything for you . . . _

_What do you want me to do?_ Stan pleaded.

It was so touching, and so real, probably because it was. Stan was pouring his heart out in front of the entire town, just as he had predicted, and yet he was singing for only one person in the room, and she stood on the opposite side of the stage—only a few feet away, but as far away as if she really were Jodie Foster.

_I am unworthy of your love,_

_Jodie, Jodie,_

_Let me prove worthy of your love,_

_Tell me how I can earn your love, _

_Set me free, _

_How can I turn your love to me?_

Stan turned and looked directly at Wendy. With the lights and the glare, it was impossible to tell if she could see him, or if he had gotten through to her, but something surely had, because her song was every bit as passionate as Stan's . . .

_I am nothing_

_You are_

_Wind and devil and God. . . _

_Take my blood and my body_

_For your love_

_Let me feel fire_

_Let me drink poison,_

_Tell me to tear my heart in two,_

_If that's what you want me to do . . . _

"Jesus," thought Kyle. "I hope she's not thinking about Cartman." Compared to Cartman, Charlie Manson was a sweetheart.

"Jesus," thought Cartman, "that bitch is singing about me. Who's got it going on? I've got it going on!"

Cartman liked watching this scene from backstage. For one thing, it was fun to watch Wendy explode and virtually call Stan a pussy, and it was even better tonight in front of all these people. For another, not that he admitted this to himself, he liked thinking that Wendy was singing all that stuff about him. It warmed his heart, way down underneath all the racism and the butchery and the Cheesy Poofs. He was still a little stunned that the smartest, and he thought prettiest, girl in the class, had actually picked him over Stan.

Of course, last time it hadn't turned out to be true. Last time, she had turned to him after the first ever kiss he had had in his entire life and told him that she was so happy that all her feelings for him had just gone away. What was he going to do? Roll around on the ground begging? Not that she gave him a chance--by that time she was already running to meet Stan. He just sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and forgot all about her.

Well, he hadn't really. He'd been pretty crabby to her and tried to keep her out of his boy band, and finally gone back to his first, his true love—food. When Wendy dumped Stan for Token, he'd barely batted an eye. Let the other guys go nuts for the Raisins Girls—he was in it for the wings. When Wendy dumped Token again for Stan, he just yawned and reached for the Snacky Smores. He was well out of it, he thought, and she was completely out of his system.

But she wasn't, as he discovered when he noticed her watching him rehearse over and over and over again, with glowing eyes, or when she stopped him after rehearsal to tell him how great he was, brushing against his shoulder with a touch that burnt straight through her mitten, his coat, his sweater, his shirt, and his winter underwear. Later he heard Stan and Wendy quarrelling. He hadn't even had to scheme or do anything—just one night she announced that he would be walking her to her Mom's car instead of Stan, and that was it. He had her now and she was not going to leave him again if he had anything to say about it.

Onstage, Stan, as Hinckley, was aiming and missing, aiming and missing, at the cutout of Reagan. The buzzer kept going off and the voice of Reagan kept saying, "There ya go again!"

Cartman snorted. Typical Stan. "What a douche," he sneered.


	6. Going to the Lordy

Chapter Six: Going to the Lordy

Back in the audience, Kyle nudged his mother. "This is Kenny's big scene."

Kenny bounced on in his Guiteau costume. He was supposed to be showing Bebe Stevens, as Sarah Jane Moore, how to aim and fire a gun. In the process, he was supposed to be trying to feel Moore up.

Kenny _loved_ this scene. So did Bebe. They had rehearsed it a lot. In fact, come to think of it, Kyle mused, they'd even practiced it a lot without the dialogue. Behind the school.

Onstage, Kenny put his arms around Bebe, helping her to "steady the gun." He rubbed up against her.

"Mmm-hmmph, mmm hmmm mmm-hmm hmmhmm-hmm hehmmmph. Hm hm hm hm hm hmm mm hmmm mmm mmm hmph hmm-bmm-mm-mm hm mmmmmmmm?" ("You know, you're a very attractive woman. How would you like to be the wife of the next ambassador to France?")

Goddamn it, Kenny, Kyle thought.

Stan and Wendy watched Kenny from the wings. They seemed much more relaxed around each other now. Kenny was at the foot of an immense gallows with a long staircase.

(_I am going to the Lordy . . .)_ sang Kenny. In fact, it was more like a hum, though at least it was a nice musical hum and you could tell it was a hymn.

"You think it was a mistake to give Kenny a musical solo?" Stan asked, and Wendy giggled.

"Well, maybe—but look how much he's enjoying it. He certainly can bounce up and down those stairs." And that was the truth: Kenny bounced up and down the stairs both feet at a time and the audience was clearly loving it. "And Big Gay Al sings a lot of the song, anyway."

It was a nice, upbeat number. Charles Guiteau, the assassin of President James Garfield, had gone to the gallows a happy camper, convinced that he would be pardoned and that he would be the next President of the United States. He was an utter fruit loop but it was unquestionably fun to watch onstage.

"You know, Stan," Wendy said tentatively.

"Yeah?"

"I didn't _like_ saying all those mean things to you onstage. It was just acting. I didn't mean it."

"Well, what about Cartman? Was that acting, too?"

"What do you mean?" She sounded genuinely puzzled. "Oh! You mean all that 'let me tear my heart in two' stuff? Stan, no! That was Squeaky Fromme. She was obsessed with Charles Manson. Does that sound like a healthy relationship to you? Does that sound like something I would say about anybody?"

"I don't know," said Stan. "You do seem pretty obsessed with Cartman."

"Stan, I—"

"Let me finish. I meant every single word, Wendy. I _am _unworthy of your love, and I wish I could turn your love to me, and—and I don't know how."

Wendy just looked at him. It was hard to read her expression in the dark. Her voice, however, was gentle.

"Stan—that's the sweetest thing I've ever heard."

Her face drew closer to his—and closer---

"BLEAGH!"

"Ew, gross!"

Stan moved her away from the vomit. "Sorry, Wendy." He looked up just in time to see Kenny singing his last triumphal bits of the song and waving his hands in the air. He stepped off the platform. It was supposed to be a fake hanging. But something had gone horribly wrong . . .

"Oh, my God," whispered Stan. "They killed Kenny!" From the auditorium he could faintly hear Kyle yelling "You bastards!"

Wendy pulled Stan closer, before he had a chance to throw up again.

Cartman also saw the hanging from backstage. Too bad for Kenny, but he was pretty philosophical about this kind of thing now. "Who didn't see _that_ coming," he muttered. At least it was almost intermission and they'd have plenty of time to clean things up before they went on with the show. Kyle would probably be coming backstage to deal with it and he wanted to get away from Kyle and as close to Wendy as possible. He skidded on something in the dark.

"What the—Gross!" he snapped, as he realized he had skidded in somebody's vomit.

Wait a minute . . .

Who threw up all the time? Stan. And Stan threw up when he was in love. Much as Cartman wished Stan would fall for Kyle and that then they would both stay out of his hair, to date Stan only vomited for girls. And _that meant_ . . .

Cartman slinked around the wings, keeping low and close to the black curtains. If anybody had been watching him, they would have been startled to see just how much he looked like John Wilkes Booth at the Ford Theater, right before he gave Lincoln a splitting headache.

He slid around the last upstage wing.

There was Wendy. And she was all over Stan. Neither of them saw him.

For a millisecond, Cartman looked astonishingly like Stan had earlier in the evening, eyes empty, face blank, utterly lost. But only for a millisecond. The next second, he was back to looking like Snidely Whiplash. He looked as though he were about to say, "Curses! Foiled again!" He slipped back around and out to the cafeteria, where all the props and costumes were being held. By God, somebody was going to hurt for this before the evening was over.

"GODDAMN IT!"

"Wuh-well, hi, Eric!" A little blond figure popped up in front of him. "I'm all ready now! Hey—anythin' wrong?" Butters looked anxious, but not for the show: for his friend—well, his kinda friend—Eric Cartman. He looked like something awful bad must have happened.

A different person might actually have told Butters what had happened. Butters would have been happy to listen. In fact, though Cartman didn't know this, because he'd never bothered to ask, Butters knew heartbreak firsthand and he would have been a very sympathetic and helpful listener. But Cartman was not about to admit to weakness, especially to a crying little pussy like Butters. Instead, his eyes narrowed as he did a few quick calculations. Let's see, he needed the tools—he had the time—and he could use Butters. PERFECT. Kyle's show ruined, total panic, pain, misery to the nth degree, and sweet little Butters causing more chaos than Professor Chaos ever had before.

"No," Cartman said, and smiled. "Everything's fine." And it wasn't a lie.


	7. Booth vs Oswald

Chapter Seven:

Kyle had just realized that while intermission is a pleasant break for the audience, it's not time off for the director. He'd had to run backstage and get the gallows offstage and Kenny's body packed up somewhere safe. They could tell Mrs. McCormick after the show—no need to worry her now. Then he'd had to peel Tweek off the ceiling: "No, Tweek, it wasn't your fault. No, I promise nothing else is going to go wrong. Tweek, Kenny could have been hit by a bus or run over by cows or squished by an elevator, it's really not a big deal, no one is mad at you." Finally, against his better judgment, he'd given Tweek a huge swig of the thermos of coffee he always carried with him.

That about took care of fifteen minutes. There wasn't any time to talk to the cast. He had the vague impression that Stan looked more cheerful and that Cartman was missing, but figured Cartman was probably in the boy's room and didn't feel like investigating. There was only just time to slip back into his seat, hoping that Tweek wouldn't have to call him on the cell phone again.

The second half got off to a good start, with Clyde again doing a turn as Sam Byck: "Have it your way, have it your way. . . .You know what my way is? _Hot_. How about a hamburger that's fucking hot?" and hurling hamburgers out the window of an imaginary car. Then the whole cast, including the chorus members, gathered onstage for the big number "Another National Anthem." Christophe stepped forward:

_I did it because it is wrong for one man to have so much service when other men have none._

Then Cartman stepped forward. So he _had_ gotten back from the john, Kyle thought; good. He looked furious and his eyes burned:

_I did it to bring down the government of Abraham Lincoln and to avenge the ravaged South_.

Then Stan, who was glowing, too, but not with rage:

_I did it to prove to her my everlasting love._

Wendy:

_I did it to make them listen to Charlie. . . _

Whoops. No Kenny as Guiteau. Well, the show must go on. Clyde sang bitterly,

_Where's my prize? I deserve a fucking prize! Nobody would listen!_

Big Gay Al danced onstage. While the lyrics were fairly serious, --"Well, it didn't mean a nickel, you just shed a little blood," Big Gay Al couldn't sing anything without making it sound like "I'm Super, Thanks for Asking!" It had been with great difficulty that Kyle had persuaded him that there wasn't room for his entire gay menagerie onstage in this number. Clyde, as Byck, led off the march:

_Well, there's another national anthem playing_

_Not the one you hear_

_At the ballpark!_

_Where's my prize?_

The audience was clearly uncomfortable with this.

_It's the other national anthem, saying_

_If you want to hear—_

_It says bullshit; it says never, it says Sorry_

_Loud and clear, . . . TIMMAH!_

Timmy had managed to insert a golden moment. Clyde confided, taking off his Santa Claus hat, "You know why I did it? _Because there isn't any Mr. Hankey._"

Kyle had just inserted that figuring that Mr. Hankey would appreciate it, but the audience of grownups roared. Showed what they knew—Mr. Hankey was real.

The chorus marched offstage and the music died away into a country and western song on a radio. Kyle could hear Mr. Stotch saying, "Have you seen Butters yet? I thought he was supposed to have an important part."

Right on cue, Butters came onstage with a lunch pail, sat down, opened the lunch pail, took out a gun, and held it against his head. The audience gasped and Mrs. Stotch cried "Butters, NO!" Kyle wasn't worried. This was part of the script. Cartman came on as Booth, whistling, and said "Oh! I'm sorry. I was just browsing," and Butters put the gun away.

Cartman's and Butters' characters began to argue onstage, although Kyle noticed that Butters couldn't shake the stammer.

"Wh-who are you?"

"I'm your friend, Lee."

"I don't ha-have any friends," Butters said miserably.

"Yes, you do. You just haven't met them yet."

Kyle let out a breath. In spite of the stammer, Butters was good. This was the right role for him, all right: Lee Harvey Oswald. Together they were incredibly convincing, Butters as the down and out guy with no one to love him and nothing to look forward to, and Cartman as the—wait, what was he doing? Goddamn it, Cartman was being persuasive up there. It was part of the show. As Booth, he was supposed to talk Oswald out of killing himself and into shooting President Kennedy instead. But Kyle felt that weird hypnotic lurch as the audience went with Cartman again. He was acting, right?

Cartman smoothed his mustache and went on.

"What do you want, Lee?"

"Y-you know so m-much, why don't you t-tell me."

"You want what everyone wants. To be appreciated. To be valued. To be in other people's thoughts. For them to think of you and smile . . . You want someone to love you, _Butters_. Right? Isn't that it?"

Had Cartman just said "Butters?" Butters looked startled and said, "Yes."

"Forget it," snapped Cartman.

"What?" asked Butters, genuinely confused and upset now.

"It's never going to happen. It's a fantasy. You've got to give it up."

They were back on script. Cartman, as Booth, was well into persuading Oswald that he ought to shoot President Kennedy. Kyle relaxed a bit. Then Cartman asked Butters:

"What's in the package?"

"Cu-curtain rods."

"You sure?"

"Su-sure I'm sure! Mom—I mean, Marina wanted me to take them to the—"

Cartman/Booth leaned down, slid open the package and took out a rifle.

"That's a Mannlicher-Carcano. 6.5 millimeter. Stopping range, nine hundred yards. The sight's already been adjusted."

Kyle saw Jimbo Kern frown and say something to Ned. He looked at the rifle again.

_That wasn't the rifle they'd rehearsed with. It wasn't ---_

"Who are you?" gasped Butters/Oswald onstage. "Good question," thought Kyle. He had to get backstage. Had to . . .Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jimbo and Ned slipping out of their seats, too, and following him up the aisle. At the same moment, the cell phone in his pocket began to vibrate. Tweek had noticed something "off" too. He tore out of the auditorium and up to Officer Barbrady, who was seated in the hallway.

"Officer Barbrady! You've got to come quick! There are guns onstage!"

"I know there are guns onstage, Kyle, you filed a permit, didn't you?"

"No, I mean, there's a real gun onstage, there's . . ."

"Of course they're real guns," Barbrady assured him. "You can't shoot blanks in a water gun. They do hurt like hell, though. You boys should be careful."

"Jesus Christ, Barbrady!" Jimbo yelled, and he, Kyle, and Ned raced backstage, where Tweek had gone as white as a snowman and looked nearly as cold.

"I think something's happening out there, I think . . . " Tweek kept repeating.

But by now, all the other assassins—Stan, Wendy, Bebe, Clyde, Craig, and The Mole—everybody but Kenny, in fact—were onstage and surrounding Cartman and Butters. Cartman had got them going, too. Kyle doubted that Stan even remembered that he was Stan Marsh or was in love with Wendy Testaburger or had a dog named Sparky. He was John Hinckley. Wendy was Squeaky Fromme. They had gotten completely caught up in the drama and were fully committed to convincing Oswald—Butters—to shoot the President. But President Kennedy wasn't here, so the script called for Butters to shoot . . .

_Into the audience._

Onstage, Cartman was handing Butters the rifle.

"I have seen the future, Lee . . . and you are it."

Butters took the rifle. Did he realize that the gun was wrong? Did he even remember he was Butters anymore? Butters was shaking, almost crying.

"P-people will hate me," he said pathetically.

"They will hate you with a _passion_, Lee. Imagine people having passionate feelings for _Leopold Butters Stotch._"

Kyle could finally see Cartman's eyes. They were glowing hot and angry. He wanted to stop everything, but like Tweek, he felt frozen in place.

Then, as scripted, Cartman hissed, "You have the power of Pandora's Box, Lee. _Open it_."

And all the other assassins came forward to urge Butters on. They looked like robots as they sang: "We're your family. . I admire you. . . I respect you. . . Make us proud of you. . .We're your family. . . "

And Cartman guided Butter's hands along the gun, slowly aiming it toward the audience. What did that sick fat bastard have in mind? Was he trying to get Butters to shoot his own parents? Or Kyle's parents? Or—his heart stopped—Ike? Or _didn't he care, did he just want someone to get it, he didn't care who, just anybody . . . _

Kyle tried to scream but nothing came out. It was a nightmare; he was going to wake up.

All of a sudden, Butters dropped the gun and it slid out of Cartman's hands, too. He stepped forward.

"L-ladies and gentlemen, I-I'm supposed to shoot President Kennedy now—wu-well, that doesn't matter, cause he's already dead, but anyway—I-I just can't do it. I know Lee Harvey Oswald did it an' I should be doin' it 'cause this is a play and that's who I'm sposed to be . . .but I just think I shouldn't 'cause shootin' someone ain't ever the answer, Eric, no m-matter how m-mad they make you feel or how sad you are . . . an'—an' I just don't wanna shoot someone in school, Kyle, even in make-believe, and I know some kids and grownups don't shoot in make-believe; they get awful angry and they think it's all right . . . but it isn't ever all right, an'. . .an' sometimes some nice people get hurt." He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, 'cause I probably ruined the entire play, but I just can't do it."

He turned to where Kyle stood in the wings. "I'm sorry."

He turned back to Cartman, who was shaking—with anger? Who knew? —"I-I'm sorry, Eric. You were a real good Booth, too."

Everyone was quiet for a long minute.

Kyle nodded over to Token, who cued up the next song. Kyle had decided to put the song "Something Just Broke" back into the show. It was the only song from the point of view of people who had just heard that the president had been killed, not the assassins. Some people thought it ruined the black comedy of the show, but Kyle thought it should be left in. And with Butters' little speech, it turned out to be perfect.

_She was crying . . . _

_I'll remember it forever . . ._

_And I thought . . .._

_There are presidents that aren't worth a lot . . . _

_But still . . . _

_Something just broke . . . _

_Something we'll have to weather, _

_Bringing us all together, _

_If only for a moment. . . ._

_Something just . . ._

Then, just as he was supposed to, Cartman slapped his evil grin back on, and sang:

_Everybody's got the right to be happy. . ._

And the entire cast joined in. Kyle pulled Tweak and the rest of the crew onstage. It looked like a giant curtain call as they all sang, "Everybody's got the right to their dreams." No one even noticed Jimbo and Ned quietly smuggling the wrong gun backstage.

"It was loaded, Ned."

"Bzzzt—My God. . . "

As they reached the last chords of the song, the whole cast glanced at each other and nodded.

_Everybody's got the right . . _(CLICK)

_To their dreams. . . . _

And instead of firing at the audience, as they were supposed to, they all fired up into the air. They're blanks, remember? They hurt like hell. Butters had no weapon. He just stood in the middle and tried to smile.

Tweek raced backstage and brought down the curtain. Everyone was hugging each other. "Great job! Wow!" Stan hugged Wendy. Wendy hugged Stan. Craig hugged Tweek, who let out a startled "yawp!" Clyde and Token both hugged Bebe, who looked much more cheerful now. Big Gay Al saw Mr. Slave coming backstage, the first to make it, and said "Super!" as they hugged.

Cartman wheeled around on Butters.

"Butters, you little bitch," he said in a straight flat voice that was much scarier than a yell, "you ruined the entire show. I _killed _myself up there and you _ruined_ it, you ruined the whole point of the thing."

"I'm su-sorry, Eric."

Cartman raised his hand for a slap and hastily pulled it back as Butters' parents showed up.

"Butters! Is that true? I just heard what your little friend Eric said. Did you really not say the lines you were supposed to?"

"Uh-yeah. I'm su-sorry, Mom and Dad."

"You are GROUNDED, Mister."

"Uh, I oughta be ashamed a myself, ruinin' the whole play like that."

"No," Kyle cut in, "you didn't ruin the play, Butters. You saved the play! It was much better because of you. Wasn't it, Cartman? Or would you like to go visit your friends Romper Stomper and Trent Boyett? They haven't seen you in a long time; I bet they miss you a lot. WASN'T THE ENDING BETTER, CARTMAN?"

Cartman struggled with himself for a while. "It was a better ending." He gritted his teeth and said under his breath, "Goddamnit."

Kyle's and Stan's parents bustled up, too.

"Oh, boys, that was wonderful," Sheila bubbled. "I had no idea that this show was going to be so educational. And you were _very _good, young man," she added.

Cartman looked up, but Mrs. Broflovski was looking down at Butters.

"Wu-why, shucks, ma'am. Thank you."

"Well, Butters, it looks like you didn't ruin the play after all," Butters' Dad said. "You're ungrounded. And we'll be taking you to Bennigan's."

Butters lit up. "Oh, boy! You mean it?"

Kyle said, "You know, I've learned something today. It's important to learn history and you can make it fun if you want. And sometimes people want to look at the violent scary parts because they're the most exciting. Like wars and stuff. And that's ok. But the whole point of learning history is so you don't have to repeat it. So it's a good idea to be careful—" he glanced over at Cartman "—so you know what your motivations are."

Token turned off the soundtrack machine.

"Uh, sorry. That music was from another show."

Mrs. Cartman had at last joined them.

"My little poopsykins! You were the star of the show! Eskimo kisses?"

"But Meeeem. . . "

"Eskimo kisses, Eric," she barked. Cartman gave her an Eskimo kiss.

"Come home, dumpling. Mommy will make you powdered pancake donut surprise."

Kyle followed Cartman's eyes. Stan and Wendy were holding hands, and Stan hadn't thrown up on her yet. Cartman slowly pulled off his mustache.

"Come ON, poopsykins." She turned to leave, and Cartman began to follow her out. "You want Cheesy Poofs?"

Kyle heard Cartman's voice floating back down the hall. " . . . Yeah, I want Cheesy Poofs." He didn't have the heart to make Cartman take off his costume first.

If he wrecked the costume, he'd just make Cartman pay that huge fucking fine.

Kyle relaxed a bit. Thank goodness. The show had gone all right. Nobody had died—except for Kenny, of course—and Stan was happy again, and Wendy was back with Stan, and Tweek hadn't had a heart attack, and Butters wasn't grounded, and Cartman had been shown a thing or two. . . and really, you couldn't ask for a happier ending . . .

Kyle suddenly froze.

"We've got to do it again tomorrow night."

Author's note: I have to admit it. I don't care for author's notes. I figure if it has to be said in an author's note, then the author isn't maing it clear enough. However, I think it's worthwhile mentioning that I do know that Matt Stone grew up in Littleton, Colorado, the site of the infamous Columbine shootings, which puts a certain spin on Butters' speech. I suppose it's pretty tasteless to have the South Park kids performing _Assassins_ at all, but since when has _South Park _ ever been tasteful?


End file.
